


Young, Wild Boys [PHAN]

by apathemeral



Category: Amazingphil - Fandom, Danisnotonfire - Fandom, Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF), dan and phil
Genre: 2009! x 2015! Phan, Alcohol, M/M, POV Second Person, alcoholic, drunk phan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 16:02:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8630449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apathemeral/pseuds/apathemeral
Summary: “This is Vegas. They'll do anything to get by here, and even more to thrive.”





	

**2009!Dan x 2015!Phil.**  

The best get the best. If you're rich in Vegas, you get to live your own idealism. Especially at night. Neon lights, gold decor, glass roofs, fancy suits. The splendour of the bars in the heart of the city never fail to make you forget those years pre-independence. Those years spent straggling as a naïve journalist, leeching off unpleasant flatmates; mooching around the city, bitterly observing those whom had struck their own jackpots whilst trying to listen to music that got obstructed by the walls and carried with the traffic; picking at the fraying ends of your own low-end clothing.

If you want to live in the moment, booking out a roof bar with your colleagues and their partners to celebrate your magazine's leap to the top five of its nature in the country, and sipping on some fine wine while taking in a bird's eye view of the city, is not a bad way to go. Embrace your title as the CEO of _Secore_. Pat yourself on the back for - on the day that you were finally able to afford a sufficiently modern laptop - creating that blog and networking like crazy. You'll find it satisfying, saying the least, to lean against the glass dome that encloses you and your drunk acquaintances atop this seventy-eight story building, as you pinpoint each and every one of your old flats (or at least their approximate locations) - and then, with ease, peel your gaze back to your much-easier-to-spot mansion.

Embrace the hype. The volume of the music, no longer cut off from you. The occasional brush of velvet against your bare hand as one of your models stumbles their way to the bar. The drunken joy on each of their faces as they dance; the fact that you made this night possible for them.

Embrace the fact that you're dating your favourite model too. Even though he's off in the perimeter making out with some other employee whom you struggle to recognise.

Perhaps it's an employee's mate. The two think that they're concealed. They're not; you always check the borders first. Drink some more wine, to omit the tension of your fisted hands. Maybe opt for a vodka cocktail instead - fancy, of course, with some eye-popping fruity colour gradient - if you want to forget more; if you want to achieve that almost peacefully blurred vertigo.

Oh, and vent of course to your CFO, if he happens to be in proximity. He is. And he looks substantially worried.

"Can you handle a long conversation?" you ask, once he addresses you - justifying yourself, of course. "Because I'm fucking pissed and I'm fucking drunk, and once I start talking, Lord knows when I'll be able to stop."

"I'll listen," he responds. As if he'd object. You're the fucking boss.

You get stuck right into it. "Who would've known that independence would lead to co-dependence? Not I."

PJ is no idiot, nor is he unobservant. "Again?" he queries listlessly.

"Uh-huh," you respond with an edge of satire. "Phil Lester, the cashed up CEO of Secore, can't even keep himself a guy. This time, he can't leave one either. Funny how life likes to balance itself out, eh?"

PJ is a listener. It's only second nature for him to let you continue.

"I always seem to fall for the young ones. The wild ones. Such bad taste I've been cursed with. Like a road destined to steer me wrong. This is Vegas - they'll do anything to get by here. And even more to thrive. They're all insecure. Dan only says he's forever mine during sex and that's because he goddamn means it in a different context."

You unsubtly shift your gaze to the perimeter. The fools are still at it. Dan's hair is even more of a mane than it was three minutes ago. That triggers a spark of arousal. You want to scream at yourself. You down the rest of your drink instead. Pj warily tracks each gesture.

You continue. "Dan will happily be my fuck buddy for as long as I want him to be. He basks in the gifts. His ego only inflates each time I feature him in that goddamn magazine. He's forever mine because he's forever selfish. He probably moans the same fucking thing while those other guys shove their dicks up his ass. Those guys he met through me."

Your colleague doesn't seem to know how to respond. He'd looked as if he'd considered reaching out to give you a sympathetic arm pat for a split second. Then as if he'd been about to say something. Instead he takes a sip of his own drink and leans ever-so-slightly closer to you with an inaudible sigh - his cue of sympathy; his invitation for more venting.

You briefly pan your vision around the room. The music is still blaring; the floor is still a spread of liveliness. People are swooping around everywhere, too caught up in the moment. Another velvet dress brushes over your arm; the person to which it belongs doesn't even acknowledge you. The two bartenders are occupied. How ironic is it that in a room brimming with ears, you can still safely spill your guts?

"Remember Charlie? You saw it first-hand, how torn up I was about him. Well, I managed to get over him completely within the first two weeks of getting to know Dan. My infatuation for - no - dependence on him by far outmeasures any form of attraction I've ever felt. God, the charm and intelligence of that kid. And is he not angelic to you? I know he's only eighteen, but goddamnit - how is it even possible for a post-pubescent male face to look that pure? Why do his motives have to contradict every fucking trait of his that I love. I was able to leave all the others - even if I had to wrench on occasions - but this time I'm actually stuck."

This time PJ doesn't stop his grip from taking your arm. He looks sympathetic; frustrated, too. The song does not change. People do not shift. You do not feel any more rational.

"This is the seventh time," he states matter-of-factly, "And you've been with him for half a year. You know it's not going to get any better. Have you even brought it up to him?"

You scoff, and instinctively make a reach for your glass. No wine left. You heavily prop your elbow onto the counter and take a small fistful of hair into your hand, laughing emptily. Theoretically, you're the one in power. You could fire Dan in an instant, if you wanted to. Give him a bad word or two to further tarnish his career, if you felt extra cruel. Even blow the whole scandal up into the reports of a couple of cash-hungry tabloids. You'd obviously not take the two latter measures, regardless of who it was - personal stays personal, and you're no scumbag. But you could easily employ threat. Or even just kick Dan out of your house. But you are stuck.

"I can't. I just fuck his brains out each time; make myself believe that I'm cleansing him of those other men, like the idiot I am. I don't want to cause division. Even though I've already lost him. I'll believe any lie I conjure up for my own benefit-" you gesticulate jerkily with your free hand, employing an airier tone - "Buy him another gold watch, he'll grow fonder of me. Maybe a Lamborghini will be the final element of the hefty equation that adds up to requited love. But love doesn't exist when we live like this. Surely, I know that much, right? Of course I do. I dismiss it. He'll be the fucking death of me."

You look around the room again. Dan and his buddy have discontinued their display on the wall. They've probably taken the floor. Or one of the seventy-eight stories of this building. The song has changed, you think. The dynamic is still the same, but your heat has dissipated. The air surrounding you is too icy to put up with.

PJ shakes his head, all slant-eyed and solemn, and heaves out a sigh. "You don't need me to tell you that you've got to leave him. Nothing else I can say will make your situation different. You're no dumbass. Just let go."

Your mind short-circuits. That does nothing to lift the anchor. You still crave that fucking vertigo, and the burn of the throat that accompanies it.

"Waiter!" you call out sharply, shoving a couple of hundred pounds into his palms as soon as they're in reach, "I'll take the whole bottle."

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhat based off 'Young Girls' by Bruno Mars.


End file.
